part i of crime and punishment

8/2/2019 PART I of Crime and Punishment

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PART I

CHAPTER I

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in

which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K.

bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under

the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The

landlady who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor

below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of

which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick,

frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt

to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time

past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He

had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he

dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty,

but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up

attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing

that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to

be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment,

threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie--no,

rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his

fears.

"I want to attempt a thing /like that/ and am frightened by these trifles," he thought,

with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, all is in a man's hands and he lets it all slip from

cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most

afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . . But I am

talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter

because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together inmy den thinking. . of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of

that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a

plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster,

scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so



familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer--all worked painfully upon

the young man's already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-

houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men

whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting

misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment

in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above

the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair.

Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness

of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe

it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself,

to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his

ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had

scarcely tasted food.

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have beenashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however,

scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity

of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance

of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the

heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure,

however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness

and contempt in the young man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth,

he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with

acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any

time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being takensomewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him

as he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and

pointing at him--the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It

was a tall round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all

torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not

shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.

"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a

stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too

noticeable. . . . It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable. . . . With my rags I ought to

wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a

hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered. . . . What matters is that

people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one

should be as little conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's

just such trifles that always ruin everything. . . ."



He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his

lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he

had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only

tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had

begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered

at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this "hideous"

dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not realise this himself. He

was positively going now for a "rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his

excitement grew more and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one

side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in

tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths,

cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc.

There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the twocourtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on the building.

The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed

through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and

narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these

surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.

"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really

going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There

his progress was barred by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a

flat. He knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, andhis family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase

would be untenanted except by the old woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he

thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint

tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses

always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its

peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before

him. . . . He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the

door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust

through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the

darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened

the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off

from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly

at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant

eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared

with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a

hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung



flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed

and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather

peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.

"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to

mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.

"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman

said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.

"And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov continued, a little

disconcerted and surprised at the old woman's mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like that

though, only I did not notice it the other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to

the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her:

"Step in, my good sir."

The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the walls,

geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment

by the setting sun.

"So the sun will shine like this /then/ too!" flashed as it were by chance through

Raskolnikov's mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as

far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special

in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a

huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a

looking-glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three

half-penny prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with birds in their

hands--that was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was

very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.

"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to be seen in

the whole flat.

"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such cleanliness," Raskolnikov

thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading

into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and

into which he had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.



"What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as

before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the face.

"I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned

flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel.

"But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday."

"I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little."

"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your pledge at once."

"How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?"

"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's scarcely worth anything. I gave you two

roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweler's for a roubleand a half."

"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father's. I shall be getting some

money soon."

"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!"

"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.

"Please yourself"--and the old woman handed him back the watch. The young man tookit, and was so angry that he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at

once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, and that he had had

another object also in coming.

"Hand it over," he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind the curtain

into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room,

listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers.

"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the keys in a pocket on the

right. All in one bunch on a steel ring. . . . And there's one key there, three times as big

as all the others, with deep notches; that can't be the key of the chest of drawers . . .

then there must be some other chest or strong-box . . . that's worth knowing. Strong-

boxes always have keys like that . . . but how degrading it all is."



The old woman came back.

"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take fifteen copecks

from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you

before, you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in advance. That makes

thirty-five copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the

watch. Here it is."

"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"

"Just so."

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old woman, and

was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still something he wanted to say or to

do, but he did not himself quite know what.

"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna --a valuable

thing--silver--a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back from a friend . . ." he broke off in

confusion.

"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."

"Good-bye--are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" He asked

her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage.

"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"

"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick. . . . Good-day, Alyona

Ivanovna."

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more

intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as

though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, "Oh,

God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly. . . . No, it's nonsense, it's rubbish!"

he added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What

filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome,

loathsome!--and for a whole month I've been. . . ." But no words, no exclamations,

could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress

and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached

such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with

himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken

man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and only came to his



senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing

close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the

basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and

supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think,

Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never been into a

tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a

drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down

at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank

off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became clear.

"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It's

simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one

moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly

petty it all is!"

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though he

were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at

the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this

happier frame of mind was also not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had

met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had

gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The

persons still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not

extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with agrey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on

the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers,

with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench,

while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:

"His wife a year he fondly loved

His wife a--a year he--fondly loved."

Or suddenly waking up again:

"Walking along the crowded row

He met the one he used to know."



But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility and

mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man in the room who looked

somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping

from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some

agitation.

CHAPTER II

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every

sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people.

Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst

for company. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and

gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world,

whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now

to stay in the tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down

some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming

into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full coat and a horribly

greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with

oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was

another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay

some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up

small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy with the fumes of

spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before

a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a

little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled

this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly

at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at him, obviously

anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in the room, including the

tavern- keeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of

it, showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and

culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was a

man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloatedfrom continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out

of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very

strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense feeling--perhaps there

were even thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam of

something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat,

with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging



to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and stains,

protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but

had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was

something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he

ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly

resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at

Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:

"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as,

though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that

you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected

education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular

counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to

inquire--have you been in the service?"

"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the

grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the

momentary desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on being actually

spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger

who approached or attempted to approach him.

"A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man

of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped his forehead with his fingers in

self-approval. "You've been a student or have attended some learned institution! . . .

But allow me.. ." He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down besidethe young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and

boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He

pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a

month.

"Honoured sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true

saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that's even truer. But

beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate

nobility of soul, but in beggary--never--no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of

human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliatingas possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to

humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov

gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you

understand? Allow me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you

ever spent a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?"



"No, I have not happened to," answered Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth night I've slept so. . . ." He filled his glass,

emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his

hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five

days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails.

His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys at the

counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently

on purpose to listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down at a little distance, yawning

lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had

most likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of frequently

entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops

into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who are looked after sharply

and kept in order at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify

themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.

"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't you work, why aren't you at

your duty, if you are in the service?"

"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Marmeladov went on, addressing himself

exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that question to him. "Why

am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what a useless worm I am? A

month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk,

didn't I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you . . . hm. . well, topetition hopelessly for a loan?"

"Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?"

"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get nothing by

it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this most

reputable and exemplary citizen, will on no consideration give you money; and indeed I

ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I shan't pay it back. From

compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the

other day that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that's whatis done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you, should he give

it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won't, I set off to him and . . ."

"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.



"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have

somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere!

When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to go . . . (for my

daughter has a yellow passport)," he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain

uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir, no matter!" he went on hurriedly and

with apparent composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the

innkeeper smiled--"No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for

everyone knows everything about it already, and all that is secret is made open. And I

accept it all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! 'Behold the man!'

Excuse me, young man, can you. . . . No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly;

not /can/ you but /dare/ you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"

The young man did not answer a word.

"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity, after waiting for

the laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have

the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education

and an officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a

noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet . . . oh, if only she felt for

me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place

where people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she is

unjust. . . . And yet, although I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does it out of

pity--for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man," he declared

with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again--"but, my God, if she would but

once. . . . But no, no! It's all in vain and it's no use talking! No use talking! For more thanonce, my wish did come true and more than once she has felt for me but . . . such is my

fate and I am a beast by nature!"

"Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the

table.

"Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very stockings for

drink? Not her shoes--that would be more or less in the order of things, but her

stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present

to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caughtcold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little

children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing and

cleaning and washing the children, for she's been used to cleanliness from a child. But

her chest is weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I

don't feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That's why I drink too. I try to find



sympathy and feeling in drink.. . I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!" And as

though in despair he laid his head down on the table.

"Young man," he went on, raising his head again, "in your face I seem to read some

trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once.

For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish to make myself a laughing-

stock before these idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking

for a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class

school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance

before the governor and other personages for which she was presented with a gold

medal and a certificate of merit. The medal . . . well, the medal of course was sold--long

ago, hm . . . but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed

it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms with the landlady,

yet she wanted to tell someone or other of her past honours and of the happy days that

are gone. I don't condemn her for it, I don't blame her, for the one thing left her isrecollection of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit,

proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to

eat, but won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That's why she would not

overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it,

she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was a

widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the other. She married

her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father's

house. She was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into

trouble and with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she paid

him back, of which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only

in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been happy. . . . And she was

left at his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happened to be

at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many

ups and downs of all sort, I don't feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all

thrown her off. And she was proud, too, excessively proud. . . . And then, honoured sir,

and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first

wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge

the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and

distinguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and

sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you

understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere

to turn? No, that you don't understand yet. . . . And for a whole year, I performed my

duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug with his

finger), "for I have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place

too, and that through no fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did



At six o'clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out of the

room and about nine o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina

Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her in silence. She did not utter

a word, she did not even look at her, she simply picked up our big green /drap de

dames/ shawl (we have a shawl, made of /drap de dames/), put it over her head and

face and lay down on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders and her

body kept shuddering. . . . And I went on lying there, just as before. . . . And then I saw,

young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonia's little bed; she

was on her knees all the evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get up, and then

they both fell asleep in each other's arms . . . together, together . . . yes . . . and I . . . lay

drunk."

Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled

his glass, drank, and cleared his throat.

"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pause--"Since then, owing to an unfortunate

occurrence and through information given by evil- intentioned persons--in all which

Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with

want of respect--since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a

yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady,

Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna

before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too . . . hm.. . All the trouble between him and Katerina

Ivanovna was on Sonia's account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself and

then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: 'how,' said he, 'can a highly educated man

like me live in the same rooms with a girl like that?' And Katerina Ivanovna would not letit pass, she stood up for her. . and so that's how it happened. And Sonia comes to us

now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can.. . She

has a room at the Kapernaumovs' the tailors, she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a

lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And

his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own,

partitioned off. . . . Hm . . . yes . . . very poor people and all with cleft palates . . . yes.

Then I got up in the morning, and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set

off to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know

him? No? Well, then, it's a man of God you don't know. He is wax . . . wax before the

face of the Lord; even as wax melteth! . . . His eyes were dim when he heard my story.

'Marmeladov, once already you have deceived my expectations . . . I'll take you once

more on my own responsibility'--that's what he said, 'remember,' he said, 'and now you

can go.' I kissed the dust at his feet--in thought only, for in reality he would not have

allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of modern political and enlightened

ideas. I returned home, and when I announced that I'd been taken back into the service

and should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was . . .!"



Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole party of

revellers already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina

and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing "The Hamlet" were heard in the

entry. The room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with

the new-comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his

story. He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more

drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his recent success in

getting the situation seemed to revive him, and was positively reflected in a sort of

radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened attentively.

"That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes. . . . As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of

it, mercy on us, it was as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to be:

you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing

the children. 'Semyon Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!'

They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They began to getreal cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed to get together the money

for a decent outfit-- eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt-

fronts--most magnificent, a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles

and a half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina Ivanovna had

cooked two courses for dinner--soup and salt meat with horse radish--which we had

never dreamed of till then. She had not any dresses . . . none at all, but she got herself

up as though she were going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to do it with, she

smartened herself up with nothing at all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a clean collar

of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person, she was younger and

better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with money 'for the time,' shesaid, 'it won't do for me to come and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one

can see.' Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you

think: though Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady

Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then asking her in to coffee.

For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon Zaharovitch is in the

service again, now, and receiving a salary,' says she, 'and he went himself to his

excellency and his excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led

Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you

hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,' says

he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you promise now and

since moreover we've got on badly without you,' (do you hear, do you hear;) 'and so,'

says he, 'I rely now on your word as a gentleman.' And all that, let me tell you, she has

simply made up for herself, and not simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging;

no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own fancies, upon my word

she does! And I don't blame her for it, no, I don't blame her! . . . Six days ago when I

brought her my first earnings in full--twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether--she



called me her poppet: 'poppet,' said she, 'my little poppet.' And when we were by

ourselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would not think

much of me as a husband, would you? . . . Well, she pinched my cheek, 'my little

poppet,' said she."

Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to twitch. He

controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five

nights in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant love for his wife and

children bewildered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation.

He felt vexed that he had come here.

"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marmeladov recovering himself-- "Oh, sir, perhaps

all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only

worrying you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my home life, but it is not a

laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all. . . . And the whole of that heavenly day of my

life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would arrange it

all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I

should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of her

family. . . . And a great deal more. . . . Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov

suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) "well, on

the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the

evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole from Katerina Ivanovna the

key of her box, took out what was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten,

and now look at me, all of you! It's the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking

for me there and it's the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern onthe Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on . . . and it's the end of

everything!"

Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and

leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed

and with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado, he glanced at

Raskolnikov, laughed and said:

"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up! He-he-he!"

"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of the new-comers; he shouted the words

and went off into a guffaw.

"This very quart was bought with her money," Marmeladov declared, addressing himself

exclusively to Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, all

she had, as I saw. . . . She said nothing, she only looked at me without a word. . . . Not on



earth, but up yonder . . . they grieve over men, they weep, but they don't blame them,

they don't blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don't blame! Thirty

copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear sir? For

now she's got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that smartness, that special

smartness, you know? Do you understand? And there's pomatum, too, you see, she

must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her

foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand

what all that smartness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty copecks of

that money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will

have pity on a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you

sorry or not? He-he-he!"

He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was empty.

"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the tavern-keeper who was again near them.

Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the oaths came from

those who were listening and also from those who had heard nothing but were simply

looking at the figure of the discharged government clerk.

"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing up

with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting for that question.

"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be

crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me but pity me!

And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it's not merry-making I seek but tears and

tribulation!. . Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to

me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found

it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has

understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in

that day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross,

consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter

who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his

beastliness?' And He will say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee once. . . . I have

forgiven thee once. . . . Thy sins which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast lovedmuch. . . .' And he will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart

when I was with her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the

evil, the wise and the meek. . . . And when He has done with all of them, then He will

summon us. 'You too come forth,' He will say, 'Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye

weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And we shall all come forth, without

shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, 'Ye are swine, made in the



Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!' And the wise ones and those of

understanding will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?' And He will say,

'This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of

understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this.' And He will

hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before him . . . and we shall weep. . and

we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all! . . . and all will understand,

Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand. . . . Lord, Thy kingdom come!" And he

sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, apparently

oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a

certain impression; there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were

heard again.

"That's his notion!"

"Talked himself silly!"

"A fine clerk he is!"

And so on, and so on.

"Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and addressing

Raskolnikov--"come along with me . . . Kozel's house, looking into the yard. I'm going to

Katerina Ivanovna--time I did."

Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to help him.

Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on

the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to go. The drunken man was

more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew nearer the house.

"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now," he muttered in agitation--"and that she

will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That's what I say!

Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it, that's not what I am afraid of . . . it's

her eyes I am afraid of . . . yes, her eyes . . . the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me . . .

and her breathing too. . . . Have you noticed how people in that disease breathe . . .

when they are excited? I am frightened of the children's crying, too. . . . For if Sonia hasnot taken them food . . . I don't know what's happened! I don't know! But blows I am

not afraid of. . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an

enjoyment. In fact I can't get on without it. . . . It's better so. Let her strike me, it relieves

her heart . . . it's better so . . . There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker

. . . a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!"



They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got darker and

darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'clock and although in summer in

Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs.

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room

about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from

the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children's

garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably

was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with

American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted

and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron

candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room,

but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather

cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel's flat was divided stood half open, and there

was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards anddrinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and

graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic

flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands

against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken

gasps. Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare.

And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end

playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty

years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard themand did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and

seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose

from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms

clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The

youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with her head on

the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just

had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin and

ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long

outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her

brother's neck. She was trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing

all she could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyes,

which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her

mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the

very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger

stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently

wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into the



next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him,

she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing

her husband on his knees in the doorway.

"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he has come back! The criminal! the monster! . . . And

where is the money? What's in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all

different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held up both

arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.

"Where is the money?" she cried--"Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all? There were

twelve silver roubles left in the chest!" and in a fury she seized him by the hair and

dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along

on his knees.

"And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive con-so-la-tion,

ho-nou-red sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the

ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The

boy in the corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his

sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf.

"He's drunk it! he's drunk it all," the poor woman screamed in despair --"and his clothes

are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!"--and wringing her hands she pointed to the

children. "Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not ashamed?"--she pounced all at once

upon Raskolnikov--"from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been

drinking with him, too! Go away!"

The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door was

thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with

pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in at the doorway.

Further in could be seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly

scantiness, some of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted,

when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation to him.

They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard: thiscame from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her way amongst them and trying to

restore order after her own fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor

woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went

out, Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he

had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the

window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his mind and would have gone back.



"What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to himself, "they have Sonia and I want it

myself." But reflecting that it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any

case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back

to his lodging. "Sonia wants pomatum too," he said as he walked along the street, and

he laughed malignantly--"such smartness costs money. . . . Hm! And maybe Sonia

herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting big game . . . digging

for gold . . . then they would all be without a crust to-morrow except for my money.

Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they've dug there! And they're making the most of it!

Yes, they are making the most of it! They've wept over it and grown used to it. Man

grows used to everything, the scoundrel!"

He sank into thought.

"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly after a moment's thought. "What if man is

not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind--then all the

rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and it's all as it should

be."

CHAPTER III

He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he

waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a

tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance

with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of

more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would

knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: therewere three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few

manuscripts and books; the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been

long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the

floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and

served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without

undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student's overcoat, with his head on one

little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a

bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa.

It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in hispresent state of mind this was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from

everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait

upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation.

He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon

one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he

had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner.



Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the lodger's mood and had

entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray

into his room with a broom. She waked him up that day.

"Get up, why are you asleep?" she called to him. "It's past nine, I have brought you

some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're fairly starving?"

Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.

"From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.

"From the landlady, indeed!"

She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two

yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.

"Here, Nastasya, take it please," he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his

clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers--"run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little

sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher's."

"The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn't you rather have some cabbage

soup instead of sausage? It's capital soup, yesterday's. I saved it for you yesterday, but

you came in late. It's fine soup."

When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside

him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country peasant-woman and a verytalkative one.

"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you," she said.

He scowled.

"To the police? What does she want?"

"You don't pay her money and you won't turn out of the room. That's what she wants,

to be sure."

"The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "no, that would not

suit me . . . just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go and talk to her to-day."



"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever, do you lie here

like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to

teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?"

"I am doing . . ." Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.

"What are you doing?"

"Work . . ."

"What sort of work?"

"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a pause.

Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter and when

anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she feltill.

"And have you made much money by your thinking?" she managed to articulate at last.

"One can't go out to give lessons without boots. And I'm sick of it."

"Don't quarrel with your bread and butter."

"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he answered,

reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.

"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"

He looked at her strangely.

"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief pause.

"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?"

"As you please."

"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out."

"A letter? for me! from whom?"



"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will you pay me

back?"

"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it," cried Raskolnikov greatly excited--"good

God!"

A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, from the

province of R----. He turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had

received a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart.

"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three copecks, but for

goodness' sake, make haste and go!"

The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her presence; he

wanted to be left /alone/ with this letter. When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it

quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping

handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and

write. He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was a

thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were

covered with very small handwriting.

"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother--"it's two months since I last

had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake at night,

thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my inevitable silence. You know how I

love you; you are all we have to look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our

one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had given up the university

some months ago, for want of means to keep yourself and that you had lost your

lessons and your other work! How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty

roubles a year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as

you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin a merchant of

this town. He is a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your father's too. But having

given him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and

that is only just done, so that I've been unable to send you anything all this time. But

now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send you something more and in fact we maycongratulate ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the

first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me

for the last six weeks and we shall not be separated in the future. Thank God, her

sufferings are over, but I will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how

everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed from you. When you

wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dounia had a great deal to put up



with in the Svidrigraïlovs' house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all about

it--what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say

you would have thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all

the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister

be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, besides, I did not know

the whole truth myself then. What made it all so difficult was that Dounia received a

hundred roubles in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on

condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible to

throw up the situation without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to

you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you

needed so terribly then and which you received from us last year. We deceived you

then, writing that this money came from Dounia's savings, but that was not so, and now

I tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better,

and that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At first indeed

Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely and used to make disrespectful and jeeringremarks at table. . . . But I don't want to go into all those painful details, so as not to

worry you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous

behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov's wife, and all the rest of the household,

Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov, relapsing into his old

regimental habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do you think it was all

explained later on? Would you believe that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for

Dounia from the beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and

contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes,

considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with

Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneering behaviour to hide thetruth from others. But at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an

open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and offering,

besides, to throw up everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad.

You can imagine all she went through! To leave her situation at once was impossible not

only on account of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna,

whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would have been the

cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia

too; that would have been inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which

Dounia could not hope to escape from that awful house for another six weeks. You

know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she has.

Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude

to maintain her firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear of

upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It all ended very

unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in

the garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame



upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place between

them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, refused

to hear anything and was shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that

Dounia should be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant's cart, into which they

flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without folding it up and

packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put to

shame, had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town.

Only think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received from you two

months ago and what could I have written? I was in despair; I dared not write to you the

truth because you would have been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet

what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would

not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could

not. For a whole month the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came to

such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the

contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. All ouracquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that

some shopmen and clerks were intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the

gates of our house with pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All

this was set going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw dirt at

her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and that month she was

continually coming into the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping

about her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each of her husband--

which is not at all right --so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the

town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better

than I did, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried to comfortme and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God's mercy, our sufferings were cut short:

Mr. Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for

Dounia, he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia's

innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to write and give to him,

before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This letter, which remained in

Mr. Svidrigaïlov's hands after her departure, she had written to refuse personal

explanations and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her. In that letter she

reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness of his behaviour in

regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that he was the father and head of a family

and telling him how infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless

girl, unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and

touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without

tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too, cleared Dounia's reputation; they

had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed --as

indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback,



and 'again crushed' as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of

Dounia's innocence. The very next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the

Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear

this new trial and to do her duty. Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us, told

us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and

besought her to forgive her. The same morning without any delay, she went round to all

the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most

flattering terms Dounia's innocence and the nobility of her feelings and her behavior.

What was more, she showed and read to everyone the letter in Dounia's own

handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and even allowed them to take copies of it--which I must

say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about

the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence having

been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that in every house she

was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that on such and such a day Marfa

Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people assembled forevery reading of it, even many who had heard it several times already both in their own

houses and in other people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was

unnecessary; but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she succeeded in

completely re-establishing Dounia's reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair

rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I

really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly.

Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a

sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring

about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You

must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented tomarry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged

without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your

sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision

till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the

spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr

Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active

in bringing the match about. It began with his expressing through her his desire to make

our acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day

he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy

and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg,

so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised,

as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the

whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the

government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old,

but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might still be thought attractive by



women, and he is altogether a very respectable and presentable man, only he seems a

little morose and somewhat conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he

makes at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as he

shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if there is

anything you do not like in him at first sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure

that he will make a favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand

any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken

ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch,

judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he

told us that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, many of the

convictions 'of our most rising generation' and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He

said a good deal more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this

is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me

that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and seems to be good-

natured. You know your sister's character, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient andgenerous girl, but she has a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no

great love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of

an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband happy who on his side will

make her happiness his care. Of that we have no good reason to doubt, though it must

be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of great

prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more

secure, the happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some

habits and even certain differences of opinion --which indeed are inevitable even in the

happiest marriages-- Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself, that

there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck

me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from his being an

outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For instance, at his second visit, after he

had received Dounia's consent, in the course of conversation, he declared that before

making Dounia's acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good

reputation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because,

as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it is better for a

wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more

nicely and politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only

remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design, but slipped

out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and

smooth it over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so

afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that 'words are not deeds,'

and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she made up

her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and



down the room all night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and

fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided.

"I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off

for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open a legalbureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil and commercial

litigation, and only the other day he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg

because he has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the

greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this

very day you could definitely enter upon your career and might consider that your

future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be

such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential blessing. Dounia is

dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured already to drop a few words on the

subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as

he could not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to a

relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the duties (as though there

could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts whether your

studies at the university would leave you time for work at his office. The matter

dropped for the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort

of fever for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan for your becoming in

the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch's business, which might well

be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya,

and share all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of realising them.

And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch's evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does notknow you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good

influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course we are careful

not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your

becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all

seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of

the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we have not

spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will

no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though he could refuse

Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand

in the office, and receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your

own work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. And we

have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I particularly wanted

you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him

with enthusiasm about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without

seeing him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion

when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious Rodya, I think that



perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for my

own personal, perhaps old- womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by

myself, apart, than with them, after the wedding. I am convinced that he will be

generous and delicate enough to invite me and to urge me to remain with my daughter

for the future, and if he has said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has

been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in my life that

husbands don't quite get on with their mothers-in- law, and I don't want to be the least

bit in anyone's way, and for my own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so

long as I have a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dounia. If

possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece of news, dear

Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we may,

perhaps, be all together in a very short time and may embrace one another again after a

separation of almost three years! It is settled /for certain/ that Dounia and I are to set

off for Petersburg, exactly when I don't know, but very, very soon, possibly in a week. It

all depends on Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know when he has had time to lookround him in Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the

ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could be managed,

or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I shall

press you to my heart! Dounia is all excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she

said one day in joke that she would be ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone.

She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, and has only told me to write

that she has so much, so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now,

for a few lines would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself; she

bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although we shall be meeting so

soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money as I can in a day or two. Now thateveryone has heard that Dounia is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly

improved and I know that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-five

roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be able to send you

twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I am uneasy about our

travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to undertake part of

the expenses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the conveyance of

our bags and big trunk (which will be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we

must reckon upon some expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we can't be left

without a halfpenny, at least for the first few days. But we have calculated it all, Dounia

and I, to the last penny, and we see that the journey will not cost very much. It is only

ninety versts from us to the railway and we have come to an agreement with a driver

we know, so as to be in readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite

comfortably third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not twenty-five,

but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two sheets already and there is no space

left for more; our whole history, but so many events have happened! And now, my



precious Rodya, I embrace you and send you a mother's blessing till we meet. Love

Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand that she loves you

beyond everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you, Rodya, you are

everything to us--our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be

happy. Do you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our Creator and

our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may have been visited by the new spirit

of infidelity that is abroad to-day; If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in

your childhood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at my knee,

and how happy we all were in those days. Good-bye, till we meet then-- I embrace you

warmly, warmly, with many kisses.

"Yours till death,

"PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV."

Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears;

but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and

malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and

pondered, pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a

turmoil. At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a

cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went

out, this time without dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned

in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as

though hastening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticinghis way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the

passers-by. Many of them took him to be drunk.

CHAPTER IV

His mother's letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief fact in it, he had

felt not one moment's hesitation, even whilst he was reading the letter. The essential

question was settled, and irrevocably settled, in his mind: "Never such a marriage while

I am alive and Mr. Luzhin be damned!" "The thing is perfectly clear," he muttered to

himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. "No, mother,

no, Dounia, you won't deceive me! and then they apologise for not asking my adviceand for taking the decision without me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and

can't be broken off; but we will see whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: 'Pyotr

Petrovitch is such a busy man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by

express.' No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to me; and I know too

what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down all night, and what your

prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother's bedroom.



Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha. . . . Hm . . . so it is finally settled; you have determined

to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has

/already/ made his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive) a man who holds

two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation, as

mother writes, and who /seems/ to be kind, as Dounia herself observes. That /seems/

beats everything! And that very Dounia for that very '/seems/' is marrying him!

Splendid! splendid!

". . . But I should like to know why mother has written to me about 'our most rising

generation'? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in

favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should like to know one thing more:

how far they were open with one another that day and night and all this time since?

Was it all put into /words/, or did both understand that they had the same thing at

heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not

to speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother's letter it's evident: hestruck her as rude /a little/, and mother in her simplicity took her observations to

Dounia. And she was sure to be vexed and 'answered her angrily.' I should think so!

Who would not be angered when it was quite clear without any naïve questions and

when it was understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to me,

'love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself'? Has she a secret conscience-

prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? 'You are our one comfort, you are

everything to us.' Oh, mother!"

His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin

at the moment, he might have murdered him.

"Hm . . . yes, that's true," he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each

other in his brain, "it is true that 'it needs time and care to get to know a man,' but there

is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is he is 'a man of business and /seems/

kind,' that was something, wasn't it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man,

no doubt after that! But his /bride/ and her mother are to drive in a peasant's cart

covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is only ninety versts

and then they can 'travel very comfortably, third class,' for a thousand versts! Quite

right, too. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, but what about you, Mr.

Luzhin? She is your bride. . . . And you must be aware that her mother has to raisemoney on her pension for the journey. To be sure it's a matter of business, a partnership

for mutual benefit, with equal shares and expenses;--food and drink provided, but pay

for your tobacco. The business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will

cost less than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don't both see

all that, or is it that they don't want to see? And they are pleased, pleased! And to think

that this is only the first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! But what really



matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the /tone/ of the whole thing. For

that will be the tone after marriage, it's a foretaste of it. And mother too, why should

she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she gets to Petersburg? Three silver

roubles or two 'paper ones' as /she/ says. . . . that old woman . . . hm. What does she

expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing

that she /could not/ live with Dounia after the marriage, even for the first few months.

The good man has no doubt let slip something on that subject also, though mother

would deny it: 'I shall refuse,' says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she counting

on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch's

debt is paid? She knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And

all her shawls don't add more than twenty roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I

know that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin's generosity; 'he

will offer it of himself, he will press it on me.' You may wait a long time for that! That's

how it always is with these Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment every goose

is a swan with them, till the last moment, they hope for the best and will see nothingwrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side of the picture, yet they won't

face the truth till they are forced to; the very thought of it makes them shiver; they

thrust the truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out in false colours puts

a fool's cap on them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has

any orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and that he puts it on when

he goes to dine with contractors or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his

wedding, too! Enough of him, confound him!

"Well, . . . mother I don't wonder at, it's like her, God bless her, but how could Dounia?

Dounia darling, as though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when I saw youlast: I understood you then. Mother writes that 'Dounia can put up with a great deal.' I

know that very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half

years I have been thinking about it, thinking of just that, that 'Dounia can put up with a

great deal.' If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and all the rest of it, she certainly

can put up with a great deal. And now mother and she have taken it into their heads

that she can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of

wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husband's bounty--who

propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he 'let it slip,' though he is

a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as

soon as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but she will

have to live with the man. Why! she'd live on black bread and water, she would not sell

her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not barter it

for all Schleswig-Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin's money. No, Dounia was not that sort

when I knew her and . . . she is still the same, of course! Yes, there's no denying, the

Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It's a bitter thing to spend one's life a governess in the

provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a nigger on a



plantation or a Lett with a German master than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity,

by binding herself for ever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has

nothing in common--for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of unalloyed

gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to become his legal

concubine. Why is she consenting then? What's the point of it? What's the answer? It's

clear enough: for herself, for her comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but

for someone else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she will sell

herself! That's what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell

herself! She will sell everything! In such cases, 'we overcome our moral feeling if

necessary,' freedom, peace, conscience even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my

life go, if only my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we

learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade

ourselves that it is one's duty for a good object. That's just like us, it's as clear as

daylight. It's clear that Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the

business, and no one else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in theuniversity, make him a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he

may even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his life a

famous man! But my mother? It's all Rodya, precious Rodya, her first born! For such a

son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for

his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia's fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the

eternal victim so long as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice,

both of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell

you, Dounia, Sonia's life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin. 'There can be no question

of love,' mother writes. And what if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary

there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to 'keep up yourappearance,' too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness means? Do

you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same thing as Sonia's and may be

worse, viler, baser, because in your case, Dounia, it's a bargain for luxuries, after all, but

with Sonia it's simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for,

Dounia, this smartness. And what if it's more than you can bear afterwards, if you regret

it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you

are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy,

she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you

taken me for? I won't have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won't have it, mother! It shall not be,

so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall not! I won't accept it!"

He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.

"It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what

right have you? What can you promise them on your side to give you such a right? Your

whole life, your whole future, you will devote to them /when you have finished your



studies and obtained a post/? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that's all /words/,

but now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And what are

you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred roubles

pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are you going to save them from

Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would

arrange their lives for them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be

blind with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a shadow with

fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of your sister in

ten years? What may happen to her during those ten years? Can you fancy?"

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and finding a kind of

enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting

him, they were old familiar aches. It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend

his heart. Long, long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and

gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of afearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his heart and mind, clamouring

insistently for an answer. Now his mother's letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It

was clear that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved

questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he

must decide on something, or else . . .

"Or throw up life altogether!" he cried suddenly, in a frenzy--"accept one's lot humbly as

it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and

love!"

"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely

nowhere to turn?" Marmeladov's question came suddenly into his mind, "for every man

must have somewhere to turn. . . ."

He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday, slipped back into

his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had /felt

beforehand/, that it must come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only

yesterday's thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought

was a mere dream: but now . . . now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken a new

menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of thishimself. . . . He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness before his eyes.

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted to sit down and

was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K---- Boulevard. There was a seat about

a hundred paces in front of him. He walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way

he met with a little adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he



had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no

more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him

many times going home not to notice the road by which he was going, and he was

accustomed to walk like that. But there was at first sight something so strange about the

woman in front of him, that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first

reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a

sudden desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In the first

place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was walking in the great heat

bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She

had on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly

hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was

rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting

on one side. The girl was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to

side. She drew Raskolnikov's whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the seat,

but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner; she let her head sink on theback of the seat and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her

closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking

sight. He could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of a

quite young, fair-haired girl--sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen, years old, pretty

little face, but flushed and heavy looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly

to know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously,

and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and stood facing her in

perplexity. This boulevard was never much frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in thestifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about

fifteen paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He, too,

would apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object of his own. He, too,

had probably seen her in the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov in

his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood

impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away.

His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set man, about

thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov felt

furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for

a moment and walked towards the gentleman.

"Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and

laughing, spluttering with rage.

"What do you mean?" the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty astonishment.



"Get away, that's what I mean."

"How dare you, you low fellow!"

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without reflecting that the

stout gentleman was a match for two men like himself. But at that instant someoneseized him from behind, and a police constable stood between them.

"That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do you want?

Who are you?" he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags.

Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible, soldierly face,

with grey moustaches and whiskers.

"You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm. "I am a student,

Raskolnikov. . . . You may as well know that too," he added, addressing the gentleman,"come along, I have something to show you."

And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.

"Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard. There is no

telling who and what she is, she does not look like a professional. It's more likely she has

been given drink and deceived somewhere . . . for the first time . . . you understand?

and they've put her out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and

the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has not dressed

herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man's hands; that's evident. And now

look there: I don't know that dandy with whom I was going to fight, I see him for the

first time, but he, too, has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she

is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while

she is in this state . . . that's certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him myself

watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just waiting for me to go

away. Now he has walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to make a

cigarette. . . . Think how can we keep her out of his hands, and how are we to get her

home?"

The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to understand, he

turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to examine her more closely, and

his face worked with genuine compassion.

"Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head--"why, she is quite a child! She has been

deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady," he began addressing her, "where do



you live?" The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the

speaker and waved her hand.

"Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks, "here, call a

cab and tell him to drive her to her address. The only thing is to find out her address!"

"Missy, missy!" the policeman began again, taking the money. "I'll fetch you a cab and

take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?"

"Go away! They won't let me alone," the girl muttered, and once more waved her hand.

"Ach, ach, how shocking! It's shameful, missy, it's a shame!" He shook his head again,

shocked, sympathetic and indignant.

"It's a difficult job," the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did so, he looked him

up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him:dressed in rags and handing him money!

"Did you meet her far from here?" he asked him.

"I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the boulevard. She

only just reached the seat and sank down on it."

"Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have mercy on us!

An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that's a sure

thing. See how her dress has been torn too. . . . Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And aslikely as not she belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe. . . . There are many like

that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady," and he bent over her

once more.

Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies and refined" with

pretensions to gentility and smartness. . . .

"The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to keep her out of this scoundrel's hands!

Why should he outrage her! It's as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not

moving off!"

Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him, and seemed

about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a

contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces away and again halted.



"Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully, "if only she'd tell us

where to take her, but as it is. . . . Missy, hey, missy!" he bent over her once more.

She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as though realising

something, got up from the seat and walked away in the direction from which she had

come. "Oh shameful wretches, they won't let me alone!" she said, waving her hand

again. She walked quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but

along another avenue, keeping his eye on her.

"Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her," the policeman said resolutely, and he set

off after them.

"Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing.

At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete

revulsion of feeling came over him.

"Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman.

The latter turned round.

"Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse himself." He pointed

at the dandy, "What is it to do with you?"

The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.

"Well!" ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he walked after the

dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something even worse.

"He has carried off my twenty copecks," Raskolnikov murmured angrily when he was

left alone. "Well, let him take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have the

girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any

right to help? Let them devour each other alive--what is to me? How did I dare to give

him twenty copecks? Were they mine?"

In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the deserted seat.His thoughts strayed aimlessly. . . . He found it hard to fix his mind on anything at that

moment. He longed to forget himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake

up and begin life anew. . . .

"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat-- "She will come to

herself and weep, and then her mother will find out.. . She will give her a beating, a



horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn her out of doors. . . . And even if she

does not, the Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be slipping out

on the sly here and there. Then there will be the hospital directly (that's always the luck

of those girls with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then . . . again the

hospital . . . drink . . . the taverns . . . and more hospital, in two or three years--a wreck,

and her life over at eighteen or nineteen.. . Have not I seen cases like that? And how

have they been brought to it? Why, they've all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does

it matter? That's as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us, must

every year go . . . that way . . . to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain

chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they

are so scientific, so consolatory. . . . Once you've said 'percentage' there's nothing more

to worry about. If we had any other word . . . maybe we might feel more uneasy. . . . But

what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?

"But where am I going?" he thought suddenly. "Strange, I came out for something. Assoon as I had read the letter I came out. . . . I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to

Razumihin. That's what it was . . . now I remember. What for, though? And what put the

idea of going to Razumihin into my head just now? That's curious."

He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old comrades at the university. It was

remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he kept aloof from

everyone, went to see no one, and did not welcome anyone who came to see him, and

indeed everyone soon gave him up. He took no part in the students' gatherings,

amusements or conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself,

and he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was very poor, and there was asort of haughty pride and reserve about him, as though he were keeping something to

himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look down upon them all as children, as

though he were superior in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their

beliefs and interests were beneath him.

With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved and communicative

with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin. He was an

exceptionally good-humoured and candid youth, good-natured to the point of

simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better

of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. He was extremely intelligent,though he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance--tall,

thin, blackhaired and always badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was

reputed to be of great physical strength. One night, when out in a festive company, he

had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his back. There was no limit to his

drinking powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went too far

in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about



Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavourable

circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold

and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely on what he could earn by work

of one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by which to earn money. He

spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to declare that he liked it

better, because one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been

obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all

his might to save enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see

him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not even know his address. About two

months before, they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even

crossed to the other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed

him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him.

CHAPTER V

"Of course, I've been meaning lately to go to Razumihin's to ask for work, to ask him toget me lessons or something . . ." Raskolnikov thought, "but what help can he be to me

now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if he has

any farthings, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give

lessons . . . hm . . . Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I earn?

That's not what I want now. It's really absurd for me to go to Razumihin. . . ."

The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even more than he was

himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently

ordinary action.

"Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by means of Razumihin

alone?" he asked himself in perplexity.

He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly,

as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head.

"Hm . . . to Razumihin's," he said all at once, calmly, as though he had reached a final

determination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of course, but . . . not now. I shall go to him . . .

on the next day after It, when It will be over and everything will begin afresh. . . ."

And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.

"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It really going to happen? Is it

possible it really will happen?" He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant

to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with



intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all /this/ had for a

month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.

His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering; in spite of the

heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some inner

craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as though looking for something to

distract his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into

brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once

what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he

walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the

bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful

to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in

and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But

soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood

still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliage, he gazedthrough the fence, he saw in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and

balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his

attention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious

carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes

and forgot about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and

counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to

Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs

yesterday," he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot

with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an

eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry. . . . Going into the tavern he dranka glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It

was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once,

though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness

came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped

completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass

and instantly fell asleep.

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and

extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the

setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so

unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like

Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such

sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the

overwrought and deranged nervous system.



Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in the little

town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old, walking into the country with his

father on the evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly

as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had

done in memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a

willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the

horizon. A few paces beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which

had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with

his father. There was always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse,

hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were

hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when

he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was

always black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to

the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a

green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father andmother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been

dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white

dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the

shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old

priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother's grave, which was marked by a

stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did

not remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he

visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and to bow

down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father

past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was holding his father's hand andlooking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there

seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed

townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all

more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood a cart, but a strange cart. It

was one of those big carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of

wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great cart- horses, with

their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain with

no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load than without it. But

now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of

those peasants' nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load

of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the

peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes, and he

felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take

him away from the window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting,



singing and the balalaïka, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken

peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders.

"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face

red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!"

But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd.

"Take us all with a beast like that!"

"Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?"

"And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"

"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the

reins and standing straight up in front. "The bay has gone with Matvey," he shoutedfrom the cart--"and this brute, mates, is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill

her. She's just eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I'll make her gallop! She'll gallop!"

and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the little mare.

"Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll gallop!"

"Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!"

"She'll jog along!"

"Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!"

"All right! Give it to her!"

They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laughing and making jokes. Six men got in and

there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She was

dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded headdress and thick leather shoes; she was

cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how

could they help laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a

gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to help Mikolka.With the cry of "now," the mare tugged with all her might, but far from galloping, could

scarcely move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and shrinking from the

blows of the three whips which were showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the

cart and in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously

thrashed the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.



"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was

aroused.

"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all. I'll beat her to death!" And he

thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself with fury.

"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father, they are beating the

poor horse!"

"Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken and foolish, they are in

fun; come away, don't look!" and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself away

from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a

bad way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.

"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do for her!"

"What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouted an old man in the crowd.

"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cartload," said

another.

"You'll kill her," shouted the third.

"Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll do what I choose. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of

you! I will have her go at a gallop! . . ."

All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare, roused by the

shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To think

of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick!

Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her about the

ribs. One ran each side.

"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cried Mikolka.

"Give us a song, mates," shouted someone in the cart and everyone in the cart joined ina riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts

and laughing.. . He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped

across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his tears were

streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he did not feel

it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the

grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the



hand and would have taken him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back to the

mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.

"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the whip, bent

forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of

one end with both hands and with an effort brandished it over the mare.

"He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill her!"

"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a swinging blow.

There was a sound of a heavy thud.

"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?" shouted voices in the crowd.

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the spine of the

luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged forwardwith all her force, tugged first on one side and then on the other, trying to move the

cart. But the six whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised again

and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka was

in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.

"She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.

"She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her," said an admiring

spectator in the crowd.

"Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a third.

"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down the shaft,

stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. "Look out," he shouted, and

with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The blow fell; the mare

staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her

back and she fell on the ground like a log.

"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the cart. Several

young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they could come across--whips,

sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing

random blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath

and died.

"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.



it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself

that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile . . . the very thought of it made me feel sick and

filled me with horror.

"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there is no flaw in all that

reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month is clear as day, true as

arithmetic. . . . My God! Anyway I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't do it, I couldn't

do it! Why, why then am I still . . . ?"

He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this

place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in

every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that

fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a

sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show me my path--I renounce

that accursed . . . dream of mine."

Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the glowing red sun

setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he was not conscious of fatigue. It

was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month past in his heart had

suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that

obsession!

Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during those days,

minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiously impressed by one

circumstance, which, though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed to himafterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and

explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more

convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by

the Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily

out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it happened to him dozens of times to

return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always

asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such

an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no

reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in the very

mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravestand most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for

him on purpose!

It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables and the

barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were closing their

establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like their customers,



were going home. Rag pickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the

taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly

liked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets.

Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any

attire without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had

two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up

to go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to

them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the

younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited

the previous day to pawn his watch and make his /experiment/. . . . He already knew all

about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-

five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and

went in fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night, and even

beat her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening

earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. Themoment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation as it

were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this

meeting.

"You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huckster was saying

aloud. "Come round to-morrow about seven. They will be here too."

"To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her

mind.

"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled the huckster's

wife, a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not

your own sister either-nothing but a step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!"

"But this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," her husband interrupted; "that's

my advice, but come round to us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on

your sister herself may have a notion."

"Am I to come?"

"About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for

yourself."

"And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.

"All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away.



Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not

to miss a word. His first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a shiver

running down his spine. He had learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that

the next day at seven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and only companion,

would be away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the old

woman /would be left alone/.

He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condemned to death.

He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole

being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was

suddenly and irrevocably decided.

Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he could not reckon

on a more certain step towards the success of the plan than that which had just

presented itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out beforehand and

with certainty, with greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and

investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life an attempt

was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.

CHAPTER VI

Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited

Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A

family who had come to the town and been reduced to poverty were selling their

household goods and clothes, all women's things. As the things would have fetched little

in the market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's business. Sheundertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always

fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already,

she was very submissive and timid.

But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of superstition remained in

him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always afterwards

disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some

peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called

Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address

of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For along while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along somehow.

Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two articles that could be

pawned: his father's old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones, a

present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old

woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he

knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into a miserable



little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A

strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much

absorbed him.

Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know

and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards

and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the student mention to the officer the

pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to

Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course

it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here

someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began telling his friend

various details about Alyona Ivanovna.

"She is first-rate," he said. "You can always get money from her. She is as rich as a Jew,

she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a pledge for

a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy. . .

."

And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you were only a day

late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an

article and took five and even seven percent a month on it and so on. The student

chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature

was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though

Lizaveta was at least six feet high.

"There's a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed.

They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a peculiar relish

and was continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked him

to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and

learned everything about her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her

half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day

and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing

and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to

accept an order or job of any kind without her sister's permission. The old woman hadalready made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a

farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a

monastery in the province of N----, that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity.

Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in

appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards.

She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the



student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was

continually with child.

"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.

"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is notat all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of

it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to

put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very

sweet."

"You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer.

"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and

make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest conscience-prick," the

student added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered.

How strange it was!

"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said hotly. "I was joking of

course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful,

ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an

idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You

understand? You understand?"

"Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited companion

attentively.

"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for want of help and

by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and

helped, on that old woman's money which will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds,

thousands perhaps, might be set on the right path; dozens of families saved from

destitution, from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill

her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity

and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by

thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be saved from corruption anddecay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange--it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what

value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of

existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the old

woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit

Lizaveta's finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated."



"Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but there it is, it's

nature."

"Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for that, we

should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would never have been a

single great man. They talk of duty, conscience--I don't want to say anything against

duty and conscience; --but the point is, what do we mean by them. Stay, I have another

question to ask you. Listen!"

"No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"

"Well?"

"You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the old woman

/yourself/?"

"Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it. . . . It's nothing to do with me. . . ."

"But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there's no justice about it. . . . Let us have

another game."

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthful talk and

thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms and on different themes.

But why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment

when his own brain was just conceiving . . . /the very same ideas/? And why, just at the

moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he

dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed

strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later

action; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. .

. .

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour

without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to

him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything

at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised

with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him,

as it were crushing him.



He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his

room at ten o'clock the next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in

tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot.

"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is always asleep."

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank

back on the sofa again.

"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"

He made no reply.

"Do you want some tea?"

"Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o'clock

with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively

offended and began wrathfully rousing him.

"Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with repulsion.

He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.

"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer. "You'd better go out

and get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will you eat it or not?"

"Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."

And he motioned her out.

She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out.

A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and

the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began to eat.

He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were mechanically. His

head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he could

not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-



dreams and such strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he

was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were

peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle; all the party were

at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it

was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-

coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold. . . .

Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out

of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up wide awake as though

someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it

and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the

stairs as if everyone was asleep. . . . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he

could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done nothing, had

prepared nothing yet. . . . And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness

and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted

haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies onthinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping

so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his

overcoat--a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst

the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a

long strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in

two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only

outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left

armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed

outside when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready long

before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a veryingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible for

him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he

would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable.

Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly

under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of

the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular

sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the

hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a fortnight before.

When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening between his sofa

and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out the /pledge/, which he had got

ready long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed

piece of wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of

wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a workshop.

Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also

picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which was a little the smaller



on the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread

round them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up

the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the

attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo the knot, and so to

gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weight, so that the woman might not

guess the first minute that the "thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by

him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard

someone suddenly about in the yard.

"It struck six long ago."

"Long ago! My God!"

He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend his thirteen

steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do--to

steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided

long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still

less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in passing,

one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had

one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more

absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he

never for a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been

considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would,it seems, have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a

whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that

trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was

continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the

neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady

was always scolding her about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go

quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything was

over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned

an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would

of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in themeantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry --that would mean suspicion or at

least grounds for suspicion.

But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and indeed he had

no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling details, until /he could

believe in it all/. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least.



He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up

and simply go there. . . . Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the object of a final

survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real

thing, as though one should say "come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!"--and

at once he had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself.

Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was

complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find rational

objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in himself, and

doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though

someone were forcing and drawing him to it.

At first--long before indeed--he had been much occupied with one question; why almost

all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals

leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many different and curious

conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the materialimpossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is

subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal

heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It was

his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a

disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the perpetration

of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer

or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other

disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime

from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of

disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be

such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of

carrying out his design, for the simple reason that his design was "not a crime. . . ." We

will omit all the process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have

run too far ahead already. . . . We may add only that the practical, purely material

difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep

all one's will-power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the

time when once one has familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the

business. . . ." But this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what

he came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as

it were accidentally and unexpectedly.

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase.

When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he

glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was



there, or if not, whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not

peep out when he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly

saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking

linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the

clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing. He turned away his

eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything;

he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.

"What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what made me

think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I

assume this so certainly?"

He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in his anger. . . .

A dull animal rage boiled within him.

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk for appearance'

sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I

have lost for ever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the

porter's little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's

room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught

his eye. . . . He looked about him--nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went

down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home!

Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe

(it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks

of wood; at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both handsinto his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason fails,

the devil helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits

extraordinarily.

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He

scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and to be

as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had the

money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse rose

from the bottom of his soul.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it

was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at the same time to go someway

round, so as to approach the house from the other side. . . .

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes thought that

he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at



all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long.

As he passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of

great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the squares. By

degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden were extended to the

field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a

splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question

why in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way

inclined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains;

where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through

the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. "What

nonsense!" he thought, "better think of nothing at all!"

"So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that meets them on

the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to

dismiss this thought. . . . And by now he was near; here was the house, here was thegate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven?

Impossible, it must be fast!"

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as though

expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely

screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time

to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other

side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him and

no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at

that moment, but he did not raise his head--he had not the strength to. The staircaseleading to the old woman's room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was

already on the stairs. . . .

Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once more feeling

for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs,

listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut;

he met no one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at

work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on.

"Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but . . . it's two storeys above

them."

And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat opposite, the

empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's was apparently empty also; the

visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off--they had gone away! . . . He was out

of breath. For one instant the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he

made no answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead silence. Then he



listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently . . . then looked about him for

the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in

the noose. "Am I very pale?" he wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated? She is

mistrustful. . . . Had I better wait a little longer . . . till my heart leaves off thumping?"

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him, it throbbed

more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the

bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly.

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of

course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her

habits . . . and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his senses were peculiarly

keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he

suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of

a skirt at the very door. someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he

was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed to have her ear to

the door.. . He moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might

not have the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly, and

without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly,

distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind

was as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his body.. . An

instant later he heard the latch unfastened.

CHAPTER VII

The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyesstared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a

great mistake.

Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not hoping that

the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it

towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she

did not pull the door back, but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged

her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing

him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to say

something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him.

"Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak easily, but his voice would

not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come . . . I have brought something . . . but

we'd better come in . . . to the light. . . ."



And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after

him; her tongue was unloosed.

"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?"

"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . here, I brought you the pledgeI promised the other day . . ." And he held out the pledge.

The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of

her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute

passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already

guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened,

so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half

minute, he thought he would have run away from her.

"Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenly, also with

malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry."

He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman

recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute tone evidently restored her confidence.

"But why, my good sir, all of a minute. . . . What is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge.

"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."

She held out her hand.

"But how pale you are, to be sure . . . and your hands are trembling too? Have you been

bathing, or what?"

"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . if you've nothing to eat,"

he added, with difficulty articulating the words.

His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth; the old woman

took the pledge.

"What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the

pledge in her hand.

"A thing . . . cigarette case. . . . Silver. . . . Look at it."

"It does not seem somehow like silver. . . . How he has wrapped it up!"



Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were

shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood

with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did

not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His

hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more

wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall. . . . A sudden giddiness came

over him.

"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved

towards him.

He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it with both arms,

scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought

the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as

soon as he had once brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.

The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked with grey,

thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat's tail and fastened by a broken horn

comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the

very top of her skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on

the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held "the pledge." Then he

dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood

gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and

at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their

sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.

He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying

to avoid the streaming body)--the same right-hand pocket from which she had taken the

key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or

giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had

been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared with

blood. . . . He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a

steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a

whole shrine of holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and

covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers.Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard

their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to

give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He

positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind.

He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her

senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and



lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt

that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly

that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with

his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile

there was a perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged

at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood.

He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented

its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the

body, but did not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood,

after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without touching the

body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a purse. On the string were two crosses,

one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a

small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very

full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old

woman's body and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.

He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them again. But he was

unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were

shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was

not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered

and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the

small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had

struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that

box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old

women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized boxunder the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and

studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top,

under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk

dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The

first thing he did was to wipe his blood- stained hands on the red brocade. "It's red, and

on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then he

suddenly came to himself. "Good God, am I going out of my senses?" he thought with

terror.

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from under the fur

coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out to be various articles made

of gold among the clothes--probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be

redeemed--bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others

simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape.

Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without

examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had not time to take many. . . .



He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped short and

was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard

distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again

dead silence for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited

holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing

in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the

strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all

over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth,

but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner,

staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she could not

get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as

one sees babies' mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what

frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was sosimple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a

hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the

moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but

not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe

fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head.

She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle,

dropped it again and ran into the entry.

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite

unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if atthat moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had

been able to realise all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness

and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, perhaps,

crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his

way home, it is very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have

gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what

he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger

every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for

anything in the world.

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of

him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and

caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of

water on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were

sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of

soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the



bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long

time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were spots of blood rubbing

them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in

the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window.

There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in

the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he

looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to

be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he

knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable

that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark

agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he

was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing

something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he muttered "I

must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited him such

as he had never known before.

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the

stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and at

least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not

shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta

afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have

come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!

He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.

"But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away. . . ."

He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the staircase.

He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway, two voices

were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. "What are they about?" He

waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He

was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and

someone began going downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all make such a

noise?" flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last allwas still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he heard

fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he remembered

quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began for some reason to

suspect that this was someone coming /there/, to the fourth floor, to the old woman.



Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and

unhurried. Now /he/ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was

growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third

storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was

turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught

and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly started, and

succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind

him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped

him. When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown

visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as

he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided them and

he was listening.

The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man," thought Raskolnikov,

squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of

the bell and rang it loudly.

As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of something moving in

the room. For some seconds he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again,

waited and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle of the door.

Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror

expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem

possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but /he/might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed

through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at once.

"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice,

"Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door!

Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?"

And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the bell. He must

certainly be a man of authority and an intimate acquaintance.

At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. someone else

was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first.

"You don't say there's no one at home," the new-comer cried in a cheerful, ringing

voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. "Good evening,

Koch."



"From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov.

"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered Koch. "But how do you

come to know me?

"Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards atGambrinus'."

"Oh!"

"So they are not at home? That's queer. It's awfully stupid though. Where could the old

woman have gone? I've come on business."

"Yes; and I have business with her, too."

"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie--aie! And I was hoping to get somemoney!" cried the young man.

"We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the

time for me to come herself. It's out of my way. And where the devil she can have got

to, I can't make out. She sits here from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her legs are

bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"

"Hadn't we better ask the porter?"

"What?"

"Where she's gone and when she'll be back."

"Hm. . . . Damn it all! . . . We might ask. . . . But you know she never does go anywhere."

And he once more tugged at the door-handle.

"Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we must go!"

"Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes if you pull it?"

"Well?"

"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook

clanks?"



"Well?"

"Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were all out, they

would have locked the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from

inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside

they must be at home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and don't open the

door!"

"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they about in there?"

And he began furiously shaking the door.

"Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must be something wrong. . . .

Here, you've been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don't open! So either

they've both fainted or . . ."

"What?"

"I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let him wake them up."

"All right."

Both were going down.

"Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter."

"What for?"

"Well, you'd better."

"All right."

"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e-vi-dent there's something wrong here!" the

young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.

Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle, then

gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching the door-handlepulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was only fastened by the hook.

Then puffing and panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the key

was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen.

Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was

even making ready to fight when they should come in. While they were knocking and



talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout

to them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at

them, while they could not open the door! "Only make haste!" was the thought that

flashed through his mind.

"But what the devil is he about? . . ." Time was passing, one minute, and another--no

one came. Koch began to be restless.

"What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he,

too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps

died away.

"Good heavens! What am I to do?"

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound. Abruptly,

without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and

went downstairs.

He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below--where

could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the flat.

"Hey there! Catch the brute!"

Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran down the stairs,

bawling at the top of his voice.

"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was still. But at the

same instant several men talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There

were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man.

"They!"

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come what must!" If they

stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was lost too; they would remember

him. They were approaching; they were only a flight from him--and suddenly

deliverance! A few steps from him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door

wide open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and

which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just

run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room

stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in

at the open door and hidden behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had



already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor,

talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.

No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway

and turned to the left in the street.

He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they

were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that

by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they

would guess and completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had

succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most

likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile

he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred

yards away. "Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown

street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless,

hopeless!"

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was

half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky because there was a great

crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so

weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his

neck was all wet. "My word, he has been going it!" someone shouted at him when he

came out on the canal bank.

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was.He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed at

finding few people there and so being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning

back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get

home from quite a different direction.

He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his house! he was

already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave

problem before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far as possible in doing

so. He was of course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to

restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody's yard. But it all happenedfortunately, the door of the porter's room was closed but not locked, so that it seemed

most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all power of

reflection that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked

him, "What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again

the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench,

and even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul,



afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady's door was shut. When he was in his

room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank

forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up at once

and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he

could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts. . . .

part i of crime and punishment

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